


The Taming of the Shrawn

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Public Display of Affection, Public Sex, Sequel, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/162389">Lassiter’s Little Wifey</a>. Fluffity cracky fluff! Shawn is chillaxing at a department picnic when something Vick says makes him question what he has going with Lassie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taming of the Shrawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ditchwitchbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ditchwitchbitch).
  * Inspired by [Lassiter's Little Wifey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/162389) by [rispacooper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper). 



> This was written for help_japan for ditchwitchbitch, who is awesome!  
> Special thanks to plainapple for the salad recipe, and dlasta for the apron kink.

The thing about SBPD picnics was that they had a tendency to get a little crazy. (All these law and order types out in the heat in shorts with coolers full of beer, it was just like _Police Academy_ had made it seem). Weird things happened, like people got engaged, or dumped, or involved in some sort of kinky three-way with some blond guy and the biscuit lady in the thick stand of trees at one end of the park. (There was a reason Shawn had originally not wanted to attend and only had once it had been made clear that this was never to happen again. Ever.)

The SBPD, it turned out, was full of freeeaks (with _at least_ three ‘e’s to illustrate their kinky shenanigans). Shawn would have complained to someone about it if he’d cared that much. It was enough for him to have his freak being freaky for just him at home…or as soon as Shawn could arrange it.

At this point though, it wasn’t looking good. He couldn’t even _see_ Lassie anywhere. For a second, Shawn’s heart started beating faster in a really uncomfortable way, but then he spotted both biscuit lady and the blond tramp with the big biceps and relaxed. Anyway, he didn’t need to be psychic to know Lassie wasn’t cheating on him. Lassie wouldn’t. They were as settled as they could be without the rings and the mortgage and the dog—though they should totally get a dog.

He instantly thought of cool names, (Elvira, Captain Barkypants, Chuck Norris), then shelved the idea for more consideration later, when he was at the pound. Actually wait, the pound was the most depressing place ever. He’d send Gus to the pound for him with some sort of spy cam that first he’d have to convince Gus to buy. Then Lassie would come home and be annoyed but then secretly pleased, and spend his every spare moment with their new fluffy baby and not Shawn and…

Actually a dog didn’t seem like the greatest idea. Shawn was the one Lassie should be leashing and collaring, er, spending his time with and petting (perhaps leashing and collaring in the privacy of their own home should they ever want to try that). There was really no need to ruin what had (with only a few bumps) been an awesome relationship/playtime marriage.

Not that anyone else here knew about that part, the playtime marriage part. They knew he was spoken for. Taken. Had an awesome, lanky, handy with both his gun and his tongue, boyfriend. They might not know the details of the rest, the especial relación con carne that they had going now, but they all definitely knew, without saying anything, that Shawn and Lassiter were living together and doing the nasty.

It was kind of like how they saw Shawn’s contributions to the potluck today, as innocent gifts, the kind of thing a thoughtful significant other might make. Shawn looked over to the lunch tables in the distance and thought of that, and then also how showing off that gorgeously mayonnaised mountain of potato salad (okay, store bought but with his own ingredients thrown in) had resulted in some seriously dirty panting and grunting with his face to the kitchen counter and Lassie shoving Shawn’s apron aside to run a hand over the bruises from the day before’s adventures in _What would make a good paddle since Shawn broke the last one playing ping pong with a tennis ball?_ Because of course Shawn had been wearing his awesome coconut apron with nothing underneath it, and Lassie had been surprised and pleased to come home and find Shawn was naked and in only an apron and making something for the picnic, to see him slaving away over sliced pineapple and mini marshmallows and potato chips that belonged in any potato salad (according to the _Classic Recipes of the 1950’s_ cookbook Shawn had found in a dumpst—at a garage sale). And Lassie surprised and pleased had meant roughly squeezing skin that was still tender and softly biting Shawn’s neck before getting his face to the tile and fucking his brains out.

Shawn cleared his throat and shifted in his lawn chair. Everyone else saw an American tradition in salad form brought to the picnic by a kind and generous boyfriend. Shawn saw that and also how thoughtful Lassie was for not saying a word when Shawn had fallen down to the floor on jelly legs and doing the dishes and cleanup for him because Shawn clearly wouldn’t be moving for a while.

Looking at his potato salad made him both happy and horny. Looking at his other dish didn’t.

He didn’t get it. Frito Pie was another classic American tradition. Maybe not in Santa Barbara, but some things from Texas were worth importation. Yet no one was eating it, or at least, no one was having seconds. (Maybe sensed that it was not for all stomachs, and bathrooms for the park and the rented port-o-potties _were_ pretty inconveniently located.)

Shawn took a sip of his drink. Hmph. It was hot out and he was thirsty. Maybe people just didn’t want chili and cheese and corn chips baked in layers when it was hot out. It _was_ the sort of entree that didn’t sit easy if you were going to run off and play games.

Shawn had learned that while demonstrating his manly prowess at badminton. (Which should be spelled badmitten, but that was an argument for another day). Not that anyone had been around to watch him. Buzz, the Chief, Jules, his dad, even Lassie, had wandered off to talk to people or to play other games. Not even Gus had stayed. Roo.

Shawn had expected Lassie to ditch him for a chance to be hypercompetitive and freaky aggressive, and since many of the games had partners working together, poor Jules would probably have to go with him. But not Gus. Of course, Shawn should have guessed that Gus would bring a date. Picnics were for families and couples, he’d insisted.

Which was how Shawn knew for sure that his thing with Lassie bugged Gus, in the sense that Gus didn’t like being the guy without anyone no matter how much _American Duos_ and chocolate-topped Toaster Strudel sundaes time Shawn made for him. So Gus had _had_ to force someone to come to this with him. Some girl he’d been seeing all of two dates and if he thought he was getting lucky date number three tonight after today he was so, so mistaken.

He’d _had_ prove he could still play tennis to his date. Judging from how tired he’d looked coming back, Shawn was guessing he’d lost, or fought hard for a tie. Gus had been trying hard (and totally failing) not to look like was breathing hard.

His date must be something; Gus was not in bad shape.

He had nowhere near Lassie’s stamina though. It always surprised people, especially Gus, to hear Shawn mention it. Then Gus would run away with his hands over his ears and the topic would be temporarily dropped.

Shawn ought to mention it again soon, in retaliation for being ditched like this, though he was actually enjoying the shade and chillaxing with his drink. There were fold out tables and chairs and blankets on the grass all around him where everyone Shawn could have wanted to spend the day with had settled that morning, picking a nice spot under the trees without any prior discussion. Shawn didn’t even have to check his phone for messages; all of his friends in Santa Barbara were there and had arranged their stuff around his chair and cooler.

But he rooted in his bag anyway, in case there was something from Lassie. There wasn’t, but he found Lassie’s sunblock, which of course he didn’t have with him. He was so going to burn. He wasn’t blessed with Shawn’s naturally tanning golden skin tone.

He looked over again, but there was still no sign of him. (If Shawn closed his eyes he could picture him, and probably, _exactly_ , what he was up to over there.) That was because, at the moment, in those trees, there was a truly epic water grenade and Supersoaker battle going on.

Shawn, and even Gus before his date had shown up, had started out in there with everyone else—like three hours ago—but now it was just the hardcore Supersoaker soldiers and watery warriors refusing to give up ground.

Lassie—who’d gone in with one squishy grenade insisting he was too old to play childish war games—and Shawn’s dad were among them.

Or not. Henry came limping out as Shawn watched. He looked _soaked_ and even across the distance giving Shawn a look so he wouldn’t say anything. (Yeah right. Shawn took a picture before putting his phone back, wishing it had a better zoom feature).

As far as Shawn could tell, those in there had given up on grenades a while ago. Every once in a while he could see someone sneak over to the park’s bathrooms and water fountains to reload their neon plastic weapons. He could only assume Lass was in his Take No Prisoners mode. They’d have to pry a water gun from his cold dead fingers.

That image still wasn’t funny, even when a squirt gun was involved.

Shawn took another long pull from his straw.

But Lassie was not his problem at the moment, even if Shawn was starting to feel lonely and ignored. Lassie hadn’t eaten his dishes either, and now as it got hotter and kids got crankier and the day wore on it was all congealing and covered in bugs.

Soon people would be leaving, and though this thing was supposed to be about family, he hadn’t spent a single moment with his playtime husband and real life boyfriend.

Shawn sucked harder on the straw leading to his Bartles & Jaymes. (Who, interestingly, weren’t dead after all even if they weren’t real people. Or they were real people, but not the people they played on TV. Something, he’d lost interest part way down the Wikipedia page and pulled up Billy Zane’s as he’d had some editing to do.) He’d brought two flavors in loving homage to both the 80’s and his teen years spent trying to sneak alcohol from college students and Gus’s mom; Blue Hawaiian, because it was blue, and then Red flavor. That was the name. It was red, and that was the taste. (It was possibly supposed to be Persimmon, but he honestly couldn’t tell.)

He’d also brought a super length crazy straw. He finished his first bottle, felt dizzy and still thirsty, and so pulled out a Red, hoping the combination would turn his tongue purple. He’d just popped the straw back in when Jules and the Chief came walking over. There was no sign of Jules’s date either. Hmm. Maybe Mr. Boring But Responsible Businessman had sampled the Frito Pie, in which case he’d be holed up in the bathroom.

The smile was still on Shawn’s face as they greeted him and collapsed into their seats. They both immediately started applying sunscreen over their exposed and luscious legs and lowered their voices, as though Shawn couldn’t still hear them talking about Jules’s new man.

Shawn was happy where he was, with Lassie, especially now that they had reached their (awesome, _so_ awesome) understanding, but still, if Jules wasn’t going to be with Shawn, she at least shouldn’t be with that guy.

That guy was That Guy. He was like Blaine from _Pretty in Pink_ , but even _less_ interesting. In fact, he was like Molly Ringwald from _P in P_. There were three people possibly worth hitting in that movie, and she wasn’t one of them. (They were, in order, Spader, Cryer, and Annie Potts). Now that Shawn was settled down, Jules should totally be listening to his relationship advice and not ignoring it.

But nooo, Jules was asking the chief about her new guy, going on about how he was sensitive and responsible and how last night he’d listened to her (or something, Shawn wasn’t listening until he heard about how after that Jules had slept with him), and it had only been a few weeks of them seeing each other, but still she asking the Chief about how she _knew_. (She didn’t say what).

When she started going on about how to make it work, especially as a detective, Shawn sat up and started really paying attention. It all seemed sort of familiar, but from a different angle. Like what a psychic vision would be like, if they actually existed.

Her job meant long, strange hours and danger and stress she couldn’t share. (Which was stupid, Shawn was totally willing to share stress with Lassie. Of course, that meant letting Lassie unwind by playing Shawn’s body like Curt Smith played the guitar, but still, there was sharing).

But when she worried about him being intimidated by her badge, Shawn snorted and they both turned to him to acknowledge that he was listening. He opened his mouth, but then thought that discussing how Shawn found the intimidation sexy might make Lassie mad when he found out. (They weren’t out like, _talk_ about it, out, just like, everyone _knew_ , out).

“Something to add, Mr. Spencer?” The Chief asked, smirking like she did like she knew something. Shawn knew it was a trick, well, he almost knew it, 90%, but shut his mouth anyway, just sipping his Red.

“Is that a wine cooler?” Buzz said from nowhere, distracting everyone. (He was very distracting. Until this point, Shawn had considered wet t-shirt contests for women only, but Buzz in a white t-shirt was…distracting. Even Jules and the Chief paused). “Can I have one? Cool, thanks!” He caught the one Shawn tossed at him and then plopped down in a brightly colored beach chair. “What’s everyone talking about?”

“Uh, where did Mrs. Buzz go?” Jules wondered, trying to change the subject, like Shawn was going to let that happen. He waved at his forehead, too hot and tipsy to bother with the full show.

“She's in there giving Lassie a run for his money for fiercest commando with a gun made of yellow plastic.”

“Who is?” Gus was walking over. Shawn had been all alone for a good hour and now everyone had remembered him. He debated acting butthurt but then just had some more deliciously dyed and sugared malt liquor. Then he looked over. Still no Lassie.

Gus was holding a purse. His date’s purse. She wasn’t around. Shawn put two and two and a large helping of Frito Pie together and figured she was in the ladies. Buzz must have reached the same conclusion.

“Did she eat Shawn’s Frito Pie too?” Buzz commiserated, while everyone nodded like that made perfect sense. “Oh, uh, sorry, Shawn.”

Shawn was outraged. He gasped, but it didn’t quite drown out the “Poor Lassiter” coming from, of all people, Gus, who came to stand beside him.

“Well,” Jules said quickly, “to be fair, Lassiter’s never seemed happier than he has lately.” She didn’t gesture at Shawn, but she did smile at him. Though the slow, doubtful way she said the words made him wonder. Then gasp again when the Chief joined in with a “Cooking skills aren’t everything, trust me. If I’d worried about that, I wouldn’t still be married.”

Shawn opened his mouth again, then had to close it, _again_. While there wasn’t any rule prohibiting Lassie from dating a consultant, there was still the gay cop thing to consider, and also the fact that he had specifically told Lassie that the thing between them had boundaries for public and private (by specifically he meant during a blowjob in the kitchen, but he was sure contracts made during sex were still legally valid).

This was definitely public, even with friends. And then it wasn’t just boyfriends for reals and playtime husband and wifey, and Lassie might not like that.

But when he didn’t say anything, Jules’s smile turned up in a way a lot like the Chief’s did, that knowing smirk thing. It only got worse when a sudden loud, victorious _roar_ came from the direction of the trees.

 _That_ , that roar, that was the sound of a happy Lassie, whatever they thought. That was Lassie having fun by pretending killing Buzz’s wife or whoever with water. Shawn frowned and pulled his straw from his mouth. Why had the Chief said “married” like that?

“Who’s married exactly?” he asked playfully, shoving the conversation away from anything too close to home, and looked at Jules. “Jules! And you didn’t invite me and Gus? I’m hurt.”

“Congratulations!” Buzz immediately told her only to fall silent when Gus quietly explained to him that Shawn was being sarcastic.

What were those smirks saying? That they were doing it wrong? He’d never told anyone the nature of the decision they’d reached but maybe they’d guessed. (Who would he even tell about the sex? Gus? Not likely with how fast he could get his fingers in his ears.)

Gus reached for a wine cooler too. Shawn slapped his hand, got slapped back, and then let him have it.

“Marriage isn’t a joke, Shawn. It’s serious.”

“Of course it is. It’s a zillion dollar industry.”

“I think you’re exaggerating the number, Shawn,” Gus pointed out. He grabbed a crazy straw too.

“Shawn, I am not talking about dresses.” Jules frowned, then brightened. “Though I did see a cute one on TV the other day.” As Shawn had watched his fair share of David Tutera marathons, he let that one go by. “This is about responsibly choosing someone to share your life with.” She gestured at Buzz. “How did _you_ know?”

“Well back home--”

“Determining if you’ve found the right man—person--” the Chief interrupted, making everyone breathe a sigh of relief before Buzz could really get going with something sweet and wholesome and heartwarming. She changed her wording so carefully Shawn knew her mistake was on purpose. He was 98% sure this time. “Is something more people should consider, lest they end up making a huge mistake.”

“Did you really just say ‘lest’?” Gus stopped. “Wow.”

“Weddings aren’t marriage, Mr. Spencer.” The Chief was giving Shawn a serious look, and he hadn’t even broken, or bent, or stretched, any laws today. He tried to look innocent anyway. “But if marriage is on your mind, then why not figure all this out before your relationship goes any further.”

Shawn swallowed, then remembered he had no reason to and closed his mouth around his straw again. And sucked and sucked until half the drink was gone. He grinned when he was done, and tried a shrug. He waved at Jules’s date, outside the restrooms now and on his phone.

“Well the right _person_ is not that guy.” As a diversion, it was pretty good. He felt sweaty, sticky, nervous (though that could have been the Blue Hawaiian and Red and Frito Pie mixing in his stomach). He had a feeling the Chief was telling him he wasn’t good enough for Lassie or that Lassie would never for reals marry him, or something. That sneaky, sneaky (and yet possibly correct) woman.

They all looked back at him, so he blinked. “I know that…psychically,” he explained, and Jules _dared_ to look doubtful of his abilities. Maybe it was the Fritos and chili, or the extra mini marshmallows he’d eaten for breakfast, but he suddenly did not feel well.

“Oh really, Shawn?” Jules crossed her arms. “Is that from the spirits or from your vast dating expertise?”

Shawn put a hand to his chest and licked Red and sweat from his upper lip. Thank Jan Michael Vincent that Buzz decided to chime in again.

“I remember when I met my wife, we went to the drive-in and she unlocked the car door for me. My grandmother always told me that was the test for every girl I brought home.” Buzz sighed. “Of course my car at the time had automatic locks so she just had to hit the button, but the point is she did it.”

“Test?” The frown was in Gus’s voice. Shawn agreed with it and nodded. He wished he hadn’t when Gus went on. “There’s dating tests? Like…standards? Like…what does a girl smell like?”

Everyone looked at Gus. Even Shawn, and he had to twist around to do it.

“Dude. Gross.” He took his wine cooler back. Gus snatched it away from him and turned to face Jules like he was ever going to explain that inappropriate revelation.

“I once dated a girl who smelled like Funyons.” He spoke quickly and quietly. “It was weird.”

Shawn reconsidered that, then nodded again. “Agreed. No one should smell like a tasty product that is neither a chip nor a cracker. Or even an onion ring. Hmm.” But he shot a glance back at Gus and lowered his voice, not very low. “But for everything else, you are a total freak.”

He ought to fit in in this park of biscuit ladies and three-ways.

“Man, you’re one to talk. I saw the marks on your wrists the other day, Shawn. I know what makes those.”

Shawn barely reacted. “Tight pearl-buttoned gloves that I wear to the opera?”

“Handcuffs.” Gus managed to simultaneously sneer and leer. It was disturbing. Equally disturbing was the lack of reaction from Buzz, like that meant nothing to him, which could mean a lot of things. It took everything Shawn had (and another sip) to get him to look at Jules and the Chief. Jules’s mouth was a pretty pink circle. The Chief was just watching him.

“They were wrist cuffs actually.” This was important, lest they think Lassie was a psycho in bed too. “Padded and stuff.” He cleared his throat. Not that he didn’t love a hard metal edge around his wrist as he was pinned down and tongue tortured, but different moods meant different toys. Like sometimes chocolate sprinkles were awesome, and sometimes rainbow jimmies were better. “Come see come saw.”

He realized everyone was staring at him. Gus broke the silence.

“That isn’t the correct French, Shawn.”

“I’ve heard it both--”

“Speaking of tests,” Jules spoke hurriedly. She gave one tiny cough and took a sip from the water bottle by her chair. “I’m not sure what you mean, like does he open doors or say “Bless you” when I sneeze?”

Shawn instantly flashed back to sneezing in bed and getting a box of tissues thrown at him. Lassie had said, “Bless you” after the first one and “Ew, Shawn, it’s on the pillow!” after the second. Shawn had passed back out and woken up to medicine and a spoon on the nightstand, along with a note that read, “Take it before you infect me with your toxic death virus.” Toxic death virus. And Shawn was the dramatic one? Please.

It had only gotten worse days later, with Shawn surrounding Lassie with different varieties of take out soup. Soup was supposed to make colds better, and they’d worked until Lassie had thrown them back up. Soup did nothing for the flu. Solid lesson. Good to know.

The Chief was being cautious again. “Well yes, O’Hara, but I was also thinking along the lines of, what does he think about your desire for a career, or what you do for a living?”

What did Lassie think of Shawn’s career? Shawn thought about it, discarding their first meeting because it hadn’t ended in sex like it should have so it didn’t count. Anyway years had gone by since then. He’d changed, Lassie had changed. They worked together. He guessed that was no problem, even if Lassie wasn’t entirely down with the fake psychic thing and they couldn’t talk about the lying part out loud without Lassie arresting him.

Unless the Chief meant the dangerous side of solving mysteries and fighting crime, like Lassie getting almost killed (which time?) or Shawn getting shot. Or Shawn taking someone else’s side over Lassie’s at work. Or Lassie telling Shawn he wasn’t welcome on other cases, though he almost never did that anymore, because what was the point when he almost always let Shawn get his way on their cases now? He hadn’t even said anything when Shawn had joined the department’s softball team.

Anyway (again), they’d solved that with Officer Cuddle Bear slippers. They were totally fine.

But the Chief was still giving him careful sideways glances when she wasn’t talking to Jules. Like Shawn still had it so wrong.

“This stuff is terrible,” Gus whispered, shaking his bottle of B&J—which was mostly gone btw. Shawn shushed him.

“Dude. You should be listening to this. These are prime chick secrets.”

“Don’t say ‘chick’, Shawn, it sounds unnatural coming from you and it’s sexist.”

“Speaking of which, this is going to better than reading _Cosmo_.” Last time Shawn had read that, he’d failed the ‘ _Do You Know Better Ways to Please Your Man?_ ’ quiz and the failure still stung. (Apparently, it involved high heels and faking orgasms. Shawn couldn’t do either of those things, though he’d tried to fake one once just because. Lass had thought he was having a seizure and had tried to jam a shoe in his mouth, which wasn’t even the right thing to do if Shawn _had_ been having a seizure.)

“Wait!” Shawn slapped Gus and held up a hand. “Was that a sex talk? Did you make me miss a sex talk with Jules?” Gus jerked upright and turned as one with Shawn to look at the two women.

Jules was slightly pink but nodding her head forcefully and whispering something else he couldn’t hear.

“Damn it, Gus!” Shawn leaned forward. Gus held him back.

“I didn’t miss a word, Shawn,” he informed Shawn smugly. Shawn shuddered.

“ _How_ are you so creepy when you smile like that?” he demanded before pointedly turning back to the others. Buzz was saying something about how he and his wife couldn’t afford to eat out, so they ate at home a lot.

Shawn stopped. Jules and the Chief glanced over at him with their eyebrows up. Gus went “You know that’s right.” (Gus was like the King of the Creepers. Shawn was going to have to have another talk with him.)

After clearing her throat, the Chief gracefully moved on. She leaned over. There were toys next to her chair, but Iris was off with the other kids in the day care area that had been thoughtfully set up so the adults who wanted to could drink and gossip and share dirty sex stories. Shawn edged forward in his chair, fascinated.

“But for husband material,” she continued and Shawn scowled. Back on that again. “…There’s only one real test.” But sexy or not, Shawn was listening breathlessly like everyone else was suddenly, even Gus.

From the trees came the eerie sound of a howl. Shawn shivered

“The ‘Hold My Foot’ test,” the Chief finished, and sat back. Jules nodded.

“Ah, right the…” Jules gave up. “What? I’m sorry I have no idea what that is.” Which was a relief, Shawn didn’t want to have to start reading _Cosmo_ again. The Chief didn’t seem surprised to have stumped them.

“The ‘Hold My Foot’ test. A friend of mine passed it on to me from a friend of hers that used to do it.”

Shawn spoke up. “Chief, I’ve been meaning to ask you…what do you see here?” He pulled a napkin from his pocket and spilled wine cooler on it before holding up the blot for her to see.

“Not funny, Shawn,” Gus sniffed. “Mental illness isn’t a joke.” Shawn disagreed.

“It is when feet are involved.”

“Mr. Spencer,” the Chief snapped. They both shut up. Shawn even sat up, putting the napkin back in his pocket. He was too trained by Lassie not to sit up when given an order by someone hot. “I am completely serious.” But the Chief hesitated, then gave a small smile. “I mean, I know it’s ridiculous. But it works, trust me.”

Jules looked like she wanted to raise her hand, frowning and wiggling in her seat. The Chief waved her down.

“This friend of my friend. She’d…had a few and was in, shall we say, a good mood, and her boyfriend—at the time—of a few weeks was there with her, standing behind her as she was talking, and she, playfully, out of nowhere, lifted one foot and asked him to hold it. She gave him no explanation.” Karen (because nobody telling that story was the chief of anything) stopped. Shawn was pretty sure it was for dramatic effect.

“And he did it. No questions asked.”

“He…” Jules’s frown was delicate. She seemed to deflate. “Held her foot? I don’t get it.”

“She’d been walking outside,” Karen said, like it was obvious. “In heels.” (Heels again. Shawn scowled. No way was he wearing heels. He really didn’t have the legs for them.) “Her shoe was filthy. But he held it.” Karen paused again, clearly waiting for them all to catch up. She sighed when they didn’t, but somehow her reproving glance was just for Shawn.

Shawn reflexively sat back and tried to be dismissive though he was totally lost here.

“Psh,” Gus began. “Why would he do that?”

Why would anyone? Shawn nearly shut his eyes to try to picture Lassie doing it, but there was just…a blank…like even Shawn’s mind couldn’t go there. It made no sense, and if it had, he didn’t think Lassie would go for it. No way. He didn’t like dirt and they’d never had a thing about feet. Anyway, that wasn’t how it worked. It was Shawn tortured Lassie in public and then Lassie returned the favor in private. That was the agreement. He couldn’t switch things now, could he?

“No questions asked?” His throat was dry. He pulled his straw into his mouth. It took him a couple tries, pesky straw.

Karen tossed her head.

“Well I’m sure after a minute or two, he had questions. But the point is the guy was supportive. He did it and he assumed she had a good reason for asking.”

“But she didn’t.” Gus liked a debate to show off his junior U.N. skills, but he had a point, Shawn had to agree.

“Mr. Guster,” Karen had a sad sigh for Gus too. “I am telling a story here.” Karen crossed her legs and sat back to study them all. “She _did_ have a good reason. She decided then and there she was going to marry him and she did and they’ve been happy ever since.”

“Says you.” Shawn felt his voice was too quiet. No one else seemed to notice, but the Chief’s gaze was penetrating.

“Says the facts, Mr. Spencer.”

“And Mr. Chief did this?” Gus was just as doubtful, if a little bit louder than Shawn was capable of being at the moment.

The Chief gave him a full-fledged smirk and said nothing.

Shawn’s drink was gone. The slurping sound of an empty straw made Jules jump.

“I don’t buy it. Holding a foot is no basis for a relationship.” Junior United Nations aside (or was it Model U.N.? Not that it mattered in a world filled with grownups.) Gus looked like he meant it this time. He looked to Shawn for support, who was just drinking his milkshake, drinking it up, though nothing was there.

He didn’t have a thing for feet, even with his kinky streak and a three-e’d freak for a boyfriend and playtime hubbie. They’d definitely done kinkier things, that was for sure. Spankings, some light bondage, baking. And Lassie had always been down for all of them, even if they were Shawn’s thing more than his. Sometimes they became his thing too, sometimes he just didn’t mind doing it the way Shawn didn’t mind all the cop shows on the TIVO because he could always watch his Lifetime movies at the office. Lassie’s things were more about being rough and sometimes costumes and theater, which worked too. But still, even with that, what the Chief was suggesting to him (and she was, for reals) was public. And Shawn had never, never asked for things like that outside of the house.

The house had special rules. Public, that was another matter. Shawn was not a hand holder and Lassie could stroke out just _watching_ someone else’s PDA.

Jules seemed to be in love with the idea though. She was holding out one leg and looking at her foot. She had nail polish on her toes. It was the exact shade of pink she insisted Shawn couldn’t wear.

“Is this some Cinderella thing? My sister loved that too. Shut up, Shawn.” Gus said all in one breath but Jules answered him before Shawn could.

“Gus!” She looked honestly shocked and hurt that Gus would get it wrong. “It isn’t about that! It’s a gesture. It’s about trust and being willing to be a little embarrassed in public and putting yourself out there...” She sighed.

“You mean putting your _foot_ out there,” Gus corrected her, but looking at Shawn, and Shawn couldn’t stop a small laugh. He choked on it and the last of his Red when both women, and Buzz, crossed their arms.

Jules was not happy. “I don’t expect _you_ to understand, Shawn.”

“First of all, ouch, that hurt.” Shawn said to cover how his head went back. “And secondly, and Mr. Perfect Businessman does?”

“His name is Stephen, Shawn.” Jules had been not ten minutes ago worried that this guy wasn’t right for her and now she was sitting up to defend him. Shawn identified her posture as something he’d last seen on the schoolyard (and in the Psych office with Gus just yesterday morning while watching a recorded _Amazing_ Race). He sat up too, because a dare was coming. He could feel it coming in the air tonight like Phil Collins. After a childhood spent in detention or getting punished by Henry, he should have.

“Yes, Shawn, I think Stephen understands the finer things.” Jules was snippy. As though Shawn didn’t enjoy the finer things. He grabbed another wine cooler. Blue this time.

Just because Stephen had brought a pasta salad he’d made himself he was all about the finer things. Shawn had brought two dishes, and one of them had gotten him laid already.

“Holding your foot is a finer thing?” Gus at least had his back.

“You don’t think your date would ask it of you?” Jules went for the throat. She was as ruthless as Lassie, maybe more. If Shawn wasn’t so happy with Lass, he would have still been chasing her. She looked down, pointedly, at the purse still hooked on Gus’s arm.

Which, predictably, made Gus get defensive and refuse to play along by totally playing along.

“I think it’s meaningless. The gesture of trust could be anything else.”

“But it’s a _foot_ ,” Jules snapped back, practically crackling and Shawn blinked, because he knew sparks when he saw them. (Gus needed to get riled up with Jules more often. The two of them were like a pretty sparkler of foot holding denial.) Shawn looked at the Chief. She still did not seem surprised.

But the way she said it, Shawn was starting to wonder if this was a foot fetish thing after all. He pondered it as wine cooler sloshed in his stomach. When was a foot more than a thing that gets you places? All he could come up with during a pedi, or when he stuck his feet in Lassie’s face while _Southland_ was on so Lassie would absently rub them. (It worked too, at least until there’d be a tense moment onscreen and then Lassie would accidentally get rough and not in a good way).

“Well then let’s ask her.” Jules was saying.

“Fine.” Gus was so totally bluffing. Shawn frowned his encouragement anyway. He still owed Gus for earlier. But they all looked over as Gus’s date approached at a very rapid speed. Her motions were jerky. She’d just come from the bathroom and she…did not look good. Fritos and chili were not for everyone.

Her hair was also wet. She _might_ have gotten pegged with a stray grenade. Collateral damage couldn’t be helped. It was war, Peacock, casualties were inevitable. You couldn’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs, everybody knew that.

She’d been too young for Gus anyway. Shawn could already see this ending, and was willing to bet everyone else, including Gus, could too. But naturally Gus couldn’t back down now.

“I’ve got your purse right here.” He hopped forward only to jump back when she snatched it away with a little snarl.

“I am going home,” she told him in low, clearly enunciated words. “Right now.” Everyone turned to Gus. He gulped loud enough to hear and did his very Gus-like best to salvage things.

“Is it the water? Don’t worry. I can help you towel off.”

“Dude.” Shawn couldn’t help it. Gus ignored him.

“Just let me know what you want and I’ll try to help you feel better.” That one might have worked if he hadn’t paired with a bright attempt at a sexy smile. (Where did the creepy come from? That was Shawn’s question.)

Gus’s date, sadly, did not seem tempted. But Jules was watching, they were all watching, so Gus jumped right to it. “Then…if you wanted…I could hold your feet—foot.”

“ _Dude_!” Shawn had to end it. Before he started laughing and Gus didn’t talk to him for an entire week and then Shawn would have no one to go to drive up to Garlic Fest with him because Lassie was working. Jules didn’t have his problem, though she at least slapped a hand over her mouth before the giggle was _too_ noticeable.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. Buzz looked at the ground, blushing with second-hand embarrassment. The Chief was still smirking.

That was apparently enough for Gus’s date, she turned on her heel and took off. Gus took a few steps after her, then let his shoulders sag. By the time he was back next to Shawn, he had his eyebrows up and his stubborn face on. He ignored Juliet, surprisingly, and eyed the Chief.

“So where’s Mr. Chief again? I notice he’s not around to hold your feet.” Gus was huffy with a side of pissy.

“My husband is in Cleveland on business.” Karen did not seem offended.

“People have business in Cleveland?” Gus tried to express doubt at this, the way he did with clients he thought were guilty who were so clearly not.

“Well Betty White lives there,” Shawn pointed out.

“That’s a TV show, Shawn.” Gus accepted another bottle of Red with a nod. He might be dying of humiliation inside, but he still had his manners.

“One bout of diarrhea and she’s out?” Shawn remarked to be supportive. “Weak.” Gus could do better then someone that easily embarrassed. If he’d let diarrhea break up him and Lassie, they wouldn’t have made it past their first experiment with salsa verde on Taco Tuesdays. “Get a girl with some intestinal fortitude. Like Jules. She had my tasty Frito Pie and she’s fine.”

“Thank you, Shawn,” Jules looked taken aback, then pleased, then uncomfortable. “I think.”

“It’s a show about cougars in Cleveland, Shawn.” Gus had a thing for sexy older ladies he needed to own up to. Shawn was open with his love for confident vintage divas, it was time Gus came out of the closet too.

“It’s the _Golden Girls_ for our times.” Shawn rolled his eyes. Because those were Gus’s exact words the other night. Karen uncrossed her arms to wave at the two of them.

“You see, O’Hara, some men don’t like to lose face and will do the silliest things to avoid it.” Shawn gasped. As though this was an act. _Hot in Cleveland_ was the _Sex in the City_ of his generation. Or someone’s generation. “Image is everything to an insecure male, and yet here this man was, looking ridiculous but supporting her.”

“Her _foot_. It was just a foot.” Shawn tried to argue, since Gus was drowning his sorrows in sort of wine-flavored red lake #40. “I mean, think of the things she could have been asking him to do. Give up his favorite toothpaste in the world, or share the couch on Saturday morning, or eat a type of pizza he personally detests because you had a coupon to that place and you love it.” He really didn’t get how the public part mattered. Or feet for that matter. (Though Lassie’s foot rubs were to die for. Knots of tension had to be destroyed).

Both women gave Shawn those little smirky smiles again. It was worse from Jules.

“You just don’t see the point, Shawn.”

“Oh rilly?” Shawn pulled out the straw to take a swig of the 1980’s finest fruit-flavored and artificially-colored malt liquor. “Why don’t you ask Blaine?”

“Yeah!” Gus instantly seconded. “Wait what? Who?”

“Who?” Jules wanted to know too.

“Mr. Boring Stephen. Then you’ll see what happens. I of course already know, being so spiritually well-connected.” It was, as Ralphie had said, a slight breach of etiquette to go right to the triple dog dare but Shawn was willing to overlook it. Jules, like Gus, was not about to back down. Because only men were about saving face. Right. Shawn nearly snapped his fingers in a sassy way.

Backed into a corner since she’d done the same thing to Gus, Jules had little choice.

She swallowed. “Fine.”

The Chief’s smile was getting bigger, though she still didn’t seem surprised. It had to be a trick. (99%). It wasn’t nice of her, throwing this out like a grenade. It must be how she entertained herself, playing mind games with susceptible people in her circle.

Was it wrong that it made her so much hotter?

He’d ask Lass later, but Lassie would not be amused to know Shawn thought of his boss as hot. He’d pretend he hadn’t had the odd thought about the Chief too. He was like that.

“Here he comes,” Shawn pointed out helpfully. The guy was _still_ on his phone. Shawn perked up. He could already tell this was going to be good.

Jules got up and met him at the edge of their little group. She had on her work face, her Lassie-inspired game face.

“Stephen hey,” she started and he held up a finger. HE HELD UP A FINGER. (Shawn thought it in all caps, it was so shocking). Hmm so the guy was sensitive and awesome and successful and responsible, and yet he gave Juliet O’Hara the finger—the phone finger. It wasn’t nice when receptionists did it and it wasn’t nice now.

Any other time, Jules might have barked at him or grabbed that finger and bent it back like he was an unruly suspect. Now with her pride and her beliefs on the line she took a deep breath and looked at all of them before saying it again. “Stephen.” She even waited as he ended the call.

“Yes, Juliet?” He was, Shawn supposed, attentive enough, but he’d still made her wait. No way was he holding her foot. “Asian market,” the guy added, like that said it all.

“This guy remind you of Businessman Ken?” Gus asked Shawn, sotto voice, and Shawn snorted. Then laughed.

“Hopefully not with the same package.” Gus started to laugh too, until a glance from Chief Vick shut them both up cold. Jules carried on fairly smoothly.

“I…have something to ask you….” Jules wasn’t a coward, Shawn would give her that. She straightened up to make Lassie proud and blurted it out. “Could you hold my foot?”

Boring Stephen had a boring reaction. He stared at her, blank-faced, not reacting, for a full minute. Then he looked at everyone else with that _is she kidding?_ smile and his eyebrows up.

He turned back to Jules, looking at her face and then at her feet. If you had to hold some feet, Jules’s would have been good ones to pick. Clean with pink toes and a toe ring. Nice flip flops. But the guy didn’t even move.

Maybe, Shawn suddenly felt that nervous pang in his stomach again and it wasn’t too much wine cooler (though his vision was spinning at the edges). Maybe there was something to this holding the foot thing after all, because Shawn realized that if he’d been seeing Jules for a few weeks, he wouldn’t have minded holding her foot. Gus probably wouldn’t have either.

Stephen gave an awkward laugh and cuffed her shoulder.

“You all right, Juliet? Have you had too much sun? Or…” he glanced at Shawn’s and Gus’s and Buzz’s wine coolers, “been having a few?” Then he glared, at Shawn, as though Karen hadn’t started it.

“No I…” Jules inhaled for round two. “Hold my foot, please.” She was quieter this time, and Shawn scowled and looked at Gus. It wasn’t funny anymore.

It was good that Gus was Gus, because he agreed with Shawn’s look and stepped in to save her.

“I’ve got it. She stepped on something and she was worried,” he lied smoothly as he went over. He bent down and picked up Jules foot and pretended to dust something from her big toe. Jules shivered and looked down.

Shawn had no idea what was on Gus’s face, but they were totally having a moment. Huh. Well look at that. Gus even managed to not be creepy about it. Shawn would have felt conflicted about that, but he was getting a little wasted. (B& J could _totally_ thank him for his support.)

Blaine—Stephen, didn’t seem to notice the moment or the lack of creepiness. “You’re a doctor?”

“No, but I am in the medical field. I’m a pharmaceutical rep.” Gus quickly stood back up and dusted his hands on his pants. He coughed, then reached into a pocket. “Here’s my card.”

“Thanks, Gus.” Jules was hushed and as pink as her toes as she sat back down.

Stephen looked lost now, poor boring guy. “Oh I didn’t know you were injured, I could look.”

“That’s all right.” Jules’s tone said it was—and also that Stephen would not be getting any, possibly ever again. Even Blaine understood. He looked like he was about to ask or pull her away to ask, but then the Asian market called again and with another finger (it was almost unbelievable) he walked off to take the call.

Jules was frowning, and not looking at Gus. Or the Chief. Or even Buzz. She was staring at Shawn, like she was trying to figure him out. Shawn tried not to squirm, or squint at her, but wow it was suddenly so bright out here.

“You seem awfully confident over there, Shawn,” Jules said at last. Jules was no psychic, not even a little bit. Shawn put a hand to his churning stomach.

“What?” He did his best to seem indignant, only the B&J was going to his head now and that was two failures for two bad relationships and he could tell what she was going to ask him to do and he didn’t want to do it because he wasn’t confident at all in the outcome. “I’m…” he licked his lips “I’m a psychic, remember?”

“Is that so, Mr. Spencer?” the Chief mused. “Then I don’t suppose you’ve ever had the chance to…ask.” She still wasn’t saying out loud who he would ask, and why. This was some serious dirty pool. Shawn could feel his shoulders tense up despite the efforts of Bartles and Jaymes. (Wait, B&J, BJ, he just got it. All the jokes he’d missed the chance to make.)

He swallowed some more liquid courage and went for nonchalant, which was way better than chalant any day.

“Oh sure. I am big on feet holding. I’m a regular fetishist. You wouldn’t believe the shoe stores I’ve dragged Gus into.”

“Do not bring me into this, Shawn.” Gus, all Locked Down again. He probably thought Shawn had meant that. Just because a guy liked handcuffs…

“Quit focusing on the foot part, Shawn,” Jules exhaled, clearly starting to recover from her embarrassment.

“But the foot part is the main thing,” Buzz spoke up out of nowhere. His voice was loud and clear. They all looked at him (or remembered he was there) and either the topic or the cheap booze had Buzz flushed and bright-eyed. “Holding someone’s foot like that…it does mean something, whether you want to admit it or not. You, you know, might as well be washing them. It’s a subservient act.”

 _Now_ the chief looked surprised, though Shawn wondered if it was more because Buzz had just said what he’d said with that earnest, remarkably serious and yet freakishly innocent expression or the fact that he’d used the word “subservient”. Jules just looked more focused, well after she shut her mouth. Then she looked at Shawn with a look he’d been afraid he would see.

“I guess now’s your chance, Shawn.” She gestured to the side, and Shawn immediately turned though he knew what he was going to see.

Well he knew _who_ , he didn’t know _what_ until he looked. Then he just stared. And stared. And was really, really grateful for water grenades.

Praise Harry Belafonte and his coconut counting skills, a _clearly_ victorious Lassie was coming their way. Angry Lassie and just kicked some ass Lassie were about the same if you didn’t know him. The same wrinkled forehead and blazing, fiercely determined, gaze. The difference was that Lassie was smiling as he strode across the field from the trees toward them. _Smiling_.

Buzz’s wife was at his side, sharing his smile. They must have been on the same team. A _very_ wet Smith and Wysson were slipping out of the grove of trees and going in another direction behind them. Ha. Losers.

But the thought didn’t distract him for long. Not with Lass approaching. Shawn was suddenly very, very nervous. Gus and Jules had only been in the beginning stages of dating. The Chief and Buzz were already married. Shawn was on his own here in the long term relationship area. He wasn’t a wife, he just liked to play one at home, and say it, sometimes, when they were alone. Shawn liked the “idealized trappings of all that crap” Henry had said once, and how he’d known was something Shawn wasn’t going to ask.

He had a feeling Henry knew the same way Chief Vick did; Shawn was giving the game away. But he couldn’t help it. His mouth fell open as Lassie got closer.

That was his boyfriend. That right there, and his whole body was buzzing and swirling and hot, and yeah, oh yeah, that was his boyfriend. And everyone knew it. His mouth went dry because Lassie was so, so wet. The white collared shirt and black dress pants that Lassie had insisted on wearing to a _picnic_ were plastered to him, and the side of his face and neck were pink with sunburn and he had dirt on his hands and cheeks, and his hair was spiked up, and he was breathing hard with victory.

The hair spiked up. Hair spiked up…Wha…? Hot pineapple chunks and pepperoni he was hot, Shawn’s soaking wet commando. Dude, one of Lassie’s sleeves was even ripped. There was a water pistol tucked into his waistband and he had holster-like straps going over his shoulders, to what Shawn had no idea (but wanted to find out).

Where had Lass gotten the gun, Shawn wondered, and then realized. (From the squirming sopping wet bodies of his enemies, duh.) As the two of them reached the group, he noticed the dark streaks of paint under Lassie’s eyes. Had he brought that with him? Of course he must have. He probably had shoe polish for night camo in the trunk of his car.

Though Buzz’s wife was also wearing some. Maybe it was hers.

Lassie stopped at the edge of the group and his proud smile shifted to a suspicious frown to see how they were watching.

Speaking of feet, Shawn wanted to fall down and kiss his. It seemed like a reasonable way to confirm what everyone already knew, if Shawn were going to do that. And with that thought, the nerves returned, just like that. Oh the arousal was still there, but there were a lot of butterflies and wine cooler in Shawn’s stomach too.

“You should have joined us, O’Hara. Not that we needed the back up.” The two wet warriors high fived each other, and then Buzz’s wife moved around them to go stand next to Buzz. “Chief. O’Hara.” Lassie looked around, and ran a hand over his plastic gun like their stares were making him nervous too. “Shawn.”

Shawn. Not Spencer. That was enough for Lassie, in his way. No wonder the Chief was hinting. Lassie had stopped right in front of Shawn and then said that in front of everyone. (He refused to think it had anything to do with the way Lassie barely protested his insanity during their cases anymore, or how he listened to Shawn at work in ways that would have been unthinkable to the Lassie Shawn had first met.)

“Carlton,” Jules was a mean girl and Gus should never ever ever date her. “I think Shawn has something he’d like to ask you.”

Shawn twisted to glare at her. He didn’t care if it was a put up or shut up situation, nobody had asked Lassie to be involved in a public display of foot holding and subservient whatever. _Shawn_ was the one on his knees during private time, not Lassie, and he had to ask himself, would he have held Lassie’s foot in public? Down at the station? (Probably not. He was a bad possible future wife).

Buzz and his good and present wife were talking softly in the background, mutually supportive and loving aliens. “Carlton and I took out the rebels with a two-pronged attack.” “That’s fantastic, honey.”

That’s what Shawn ought to be doing, congratulating Lassie on his victory. This particular group wouldn’t have minded, even if they still didn’t understand the details of his especial bond with Lassifras.

Jules responded to his glare with a calm, patient expression. Her hands were in her lap.

Shawn put down his drink. Gus took a step back, clearly in shock that Shawn was going to do this. “Oh my God.”

Shawn was just grateful Henry wasn’t around. He’d probably say it was stupid, or wrong, or immature, or that of course Lassiter wasn’t going to hold Shawn’s foot for Pete’s sake, why would a grown man do that?

Or he’d say, if you really loved Lassiter, Shawn, you wouldn’t put him through some stupid public test and you definitely wouldn’t spring it on him like this. Nobody deserved a relationship pop quiz. Shawn stopped, scared again, then remembered himself (and his vow to ignore the Henry voice in his head) and flashed a cocky smile and sauntered up to Lassieface.

For once his paranoia was rewarded, Lassie definitely got that something was up. He froze; his Lassie antennae and shields up, Danger! Carlton Lassiter! Danger! all over his face. When Shawn stepped over to him, he put on his game face, but Shawn could tell he was freaked. (The little signs were all there, the worried line between his eyes some might mistake for anger, the wariness in how he adjusted his stance, and the steady way he stared at Shawn, hurt already creeping into his gaze).

Shawn licked his mouth and tried to make his smile something that might calm Lassie down, telling himself that Lassie could say no. Of course, if he said no, what then? He would have not only outed them officially and for reals, but they would think Lassie was a bad boyfriend when he wasn’t. If anyone was, it was Shawn for doing this.

But he did crazy shit all the time. Lassie ought to be okay with it by now, right?

Still…if he did this and Lassie said no, it wasn’t just embarrassing. It meant, according to the Chief who was wiser than _Cosmo_ , Lassie was not his future (for reals and not just for sexytimes) husband.

Shawn hadn’t known he’d wanted that until right this second. He _needed_ Lassie to do this.

“Hey Lass? You win?” Shawn knew he had and Lassie rolled his eyes, just for a second, to indicate that Shawn wasn’t fooling him. Shawn’s smile got slightly more real, which, naturally, made Lassie more suspicious.

He gave Shawn a sidelong look, then his fingers twitched, like he wanted to grab a gun. He shifted a bit to look over the assembled people watching and shut the front door, Lassie had a Supersoaker strapped to his back like it was a shotgun and this was _Evil Dead_ or _Terminator_. ( _Fuck_ , those straps, Shawn would have to play with those later; they made Lassie like hotter than Rambo. He turned back to share a look with everyone because his possible real life future husband was hot. But it was like they didn’t see it. Or wouldn’t admit it. Weird. He turned back around.)

“Something wrong, Shawn?” Lassie was quiet, and still saying _Shawn_ like that.

“No uh, we uh…that is…I…was wondering…” Shawn took a deep breath and looked back again. They were all waiting, Gus wincing preemptively, Jules holding her breath and smiling at him, the Chief calm and watchful. Shawn twisted back and closed his eyes before lifting his right leg to show off one red sneaker. “…if you could hold my foot?”

There was a (seriously tense) moment of silence. Shawn almost threw up a purpley mix of wine coolers.

“Hold your foot?” Lassie immediately asked in the black and orange behind Shawn’s eyes. “Are you insane? Have you lost your mind?” Shawn felt dizzy, weirdly broken, and thrown.

Though the thrown thing _might_ have had something to do with the way Lassie was rough as he yanked Shawn’s foot up, nearly pulling Shawn to the ground as he did. Shawn flailed and caught skin and a tight wet shirt in his hands and opened his eyes. He held onto Lassie’s shoulders and for a second wondered how stupid he looked, clutching the thin, see-through soaked fabric covering Lassie’s shoulders as Lassie bent over and glared at his sneaker, then his socks, then pushed up the pant leg to run his fingertips, cold and yet hot, wet fingertips, over his ankle. Gently. So gently, despite his complaining.

“I don’t see anything. If your feet hurt then you should have worn real shoes and not cheap sneakers, or those two dollar flip flips from Old Navy you were wearing all day yesterday. They have no arch support.” Lassie’s hands, holy crap, Lassie’s _hands_ were up Shawn’s pant leg now, because he was pushing the sock down and feeling along his calf in front of everyone. His fingers went from the ankle to the top of his foot, as far as Shawn’s shoe would let it go, and if he’d been barefoot, Lassie probably would have checked out the arch and the heel and his toes and then he’d have pressed in with his thumb like he did during one of his sweet massages. But Shawn wasn’t barefoot, so Lass ran his hand over the laces like he was debating untying them, and then stopped.

“How many wine coolers have you had?” Lassie snipped at him. His neck was pink. With sunburn or embarrassment or both, Shawn couldn’t tell. Lassie straightened up suddenly, meeting Shawn’s gaze (and yanking his foot up higher until Shawn had to either hug him or fall. Also he really wasn’t that flexible and it was kind of uncomfortable). Lassie’s gaze was hot and confused and a little irritated. He exhaled. Shawn shivered.

“Umm…a lot?” he answered. Lassie’s expression softened before he glanced around and went all work and no play again.

The thing was…he wasn’t letting go. This was work, or sort of, or a crazy work picnic so Shawn guessed technically it was work _and_ play at the same time, like a special time out home base limbo or something, and maybe that’s why Lassie was confused and not letting go. Shawn had to hop a little to stay up, hold on harder, get a little wet, but Lass still wasn’t letting go of Shawn’s foot.

Maybe not with no questions asked, but Shawn thought a few questions were pretty reasonable when someone asked you to hold their foot. And _Shawn_ was supposed to be the one doing the subservient acts. So this…this made like no sense. (Or he was drunk. Or both. He saw no reason that he couldn’t be both, in public, in their private group, at work and during playtime)

“Are you crazy?” Shawn had to be sure. He pulled the ink (wine cooler) blot napkin from his pocket and held it up. “What do you see?”

“A righteously executed squirrel.” Lassie said first, then squinted at it. “Your crazy straw had a hole in it?”

“Wow.” Gus was impressed. And it didn’t sound creepy.

“Oh my God” Jules breathed, then giggled.

“Aw,” Buzz’s wife said. Then, “You hungry, honey?”

The Chief said nothing.

Shawn shut his mouth. It wasn’t cool to seem stupid even if he felt stupid and of course, Lassie still had his foot and they probably looked pretty stupid.

Then Shawn lost his balance and had to hop again.

“Lassie. Lass. You’re still holding my foot.” Had he seriously forgotten?

There was a small pause before Lassie met Shawn’s gaze. His expression saying something, like _I thought you wanted me to hold it_ , and then, _what the hell, Spencer?_ Then he took a breath, as though he was going to say that, like he would have at home, but then Lassie glanced behind Shawn at their audience.

He let go. There was too much red in his face now for it to all be sunburn, but he straightened his shoulders and stepped forward, past Shawn and over to the Chief. Shawn had to force himself to move, sit back down, not follow after him.

“Detective. Looks like you won.” The Chief was somehow smirking with a completely straight face. Gus should take lessons. Lassie frowned one of his more adorably befuddled frowns and quickly looked at Shawn again, one eyebrow up, then turned back to the Chief to start going on about his soon-to-be legendary battle, and the weapons he’d claimed from defeated opponents.

Which was about the point where he drew the giant plastic gun from his back and hefted it for everyone to admire and Shawn decided that he’d had enough picnic time and he was ready to go home. Like now.

He scooted up behind Lassie with a few jokes about gun size on his lips that died away when he glanced over and saw Buzz’s wife standing behind Buzz and holding his foot.

Seriously, the SBPD was full of freaks.

Lassie missed that, or was ignoring it, still going on about the game. He had to know Shawn was standing there, but he didn’t say anything to him. Not until Shawn poked him in the shoulder for about a minute.

“Hey, Lassie. Lassie. Lassie. Lassie. Lassie.”

“What, Spencer?” Lassie barked. The eyebrow was still raised. So was the Chief’s. (That was it. 99.9% on purpose.)

Shawn rocked back on his heels, not quite grabbing at Lassie’s shirt to stay up. He couldn’t tell if Lassie was mad, or just being Lassie.

“I wanna go home,” Shawn asked, or said, or whined, he wasn’t sure. But he was sleepy and really thirsty and hot. There were also things he could have talked about with Lassie in private, but he wasn’t in the mood for talking.

Lassie momentarily froze, and only then did Shawn realize that he’d also said “home” out loud in front of the Chief. Not that she hadn’t known already, but oops. (B& J no longer had his support).

“I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Detective,” the Chief told Lassie without any hesitation, and then started talking with Jules again. Whatever they were talking about involved occasional glances at both Stephen, still on the phone, and Gus. They weren’t even considering Shawn or Lassiter as they stepped back. Shawn refolded his folding chair and closed his cooler, and then went completely still as Lassie took them from him and left him with just the bag full of sunblock and the package of crazy straws and started walking.

Shawn looked at Gus, who looked impressed.

“Dude,” he said.

“Dude,” Shawn agreed, then nodded to say goodbye and to let Gus know he might be at the office tonight for more TIVO. Then he followed—walked toward the parking lot in a path directly behind Lassie’s. Shawn nodded and waved at a couple of people who said goodbye since Lassie didn’t have any social skills on a good day, and did his best to keep up with Lanky McLonglegs.

“It was good to see you having fun that didn’t end in crime scene tape, Lass,” Shawn called out after him. Lassie grunted without turning around.

“Would have been over sooner if Wysson had accepted the inevitable.” He didn’t slow. The parking lot was also surrounded by trees, draping it in shade and shielding it from both the street and the rest of the park. With most of the PD still out there, there weren’t any other people around.

“So…” Shawn wasn’t big on apologies or explanations that didn’t make him seem like a super genius. “You’re probably wondering what was going on back there.”

“No.” Lassie did stop, just a second, to put down the cooler and dig around for the car keys. Then he kept on walking until they reached the car. When he opened the trunk, hot air wafted out. He grabbed a towel from his gym bag and started to dry himself, though the sun had already started to do that for him.

“No?” Shawn bounced after him, opening the back door of the car to throw the bag in. Lassie had removed his weaponry. (His plastic weaponry. Shawn wasn’t willing to vouch for his being totally unarmed.) He put the towel back in his bag with very controlled, precise motions, and Shawn stood back with a frown. “You mean you’ve heard of ‘Hold My Foot’?”

Lassie looked at him like he was nuts. “What the hell are you talking about?” Honest confusion was all over his face (along with the shoe polish war paint). When Shawn didn’t answer (couldn’t okay? He _couldn’t_.) Lassie rolled his eyes and moved around Shawn to slide the cooler carefully (so as not to mess up the precious pleather interior) into the back seat. When he stood up and turned around once he was satisfied, he jumped to see Shawn right in front of him.

Shawn took advantage of his lack of a firm stance and pushed him back down onto the backseat, sitting with his legs outside of the car and his hands clinging to the door to stay upright. Lassie bumped his head and glared up at Shawn while he rubbed the sore spot and swore.

“What the hell, Shawn?” he bitched without attempting to get back up.

For a guy with a divorce under his belt, Lassie was possibly the best for reals husband ever. Shawn was a lucky little wifey.

“You held my foot.” He was really trying not to sound sappy or in any way like a girl. But if there was a dudely, manly way to say that, Shawn didn’t find it. Lassie stopped swearing to blink up at him.

“You asked me to.” Like that said everything. It was quiet enough that Shawn could hear noises from the park in the distance and the street traffic from beyond the trees. “That some bet between you and O’Hara?”

“Aw, Lass. You didn’t even know what that was and you had my back.” Now that made sense, more than anything else the Chief had said.

“Yeah well,” Lassie started, “sometimes, _sometimes_ , you have good reasons for why you do the weird crap that you do.” Trust! Shawn’s mind yelled. Support! Willing to be (or, more likely, used to being) embarrassed!

The Chief was an awesome, hot, mind reading genius. Shawn was going to marry her as soon as bigamy was legal, because he was also going to totally marry Lassie, for real and everything. (As soon as that was also legal, and then they could be like _Sister Wives_ , only more like Sister Husbands because Shawn would be the only wife in that situation, but that didn’t sound as catchy. Maybe _Two Guys, a Girl, and a Police Station_ , that was better.)

Shawn knew it was true, because the cement was hard and hot but he didn’t say a thing about it when his knees hit it with only his jeans to protect them. Lassie was looking around them with wide eyes and was probably about to say something about laws getting violated. All he got out was a grunt when Shawn pulled his wet shirt up and out of the way and went to work on his belt and his pants.

They were in a public, private place, it was okay. Shawn was sure that there was a legal provision somewhere for this. He shoved Lassie back to make sure he stayed though Lass wasn’t moving and then dropped his head to mouth at wet skin and the tight, tight fabric of Lassie’s pants.

He shifted closer, knowing he had to be quick here, but also wanting to make it worth it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lassie’s white-knuckled grip on the car and smiled to himself. (Yay! Sexytimes!)

“Yeah I did,” he murmured, his lips and tongue catching water, warm from Lassie’s skin, and then salt and musky, sweet drops of pre-come. He put his hands down to steady himself, finding the dress shoes Lassie had worn for a water balloon fight, and curled his fingers around the leather.

Lassie’s fingers slid to the back of his head, not pushing or pulling, just resting there for a moment before tightening their grip when Shawn started to move his head. (He’d show Lassie to appreciate a little B& J). Lassie grunted again, whispered, “Shawn,” just like that, and then nothing else. Like he knew enough to shut up and not ask any questions.

It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. Shawn had the Best. Husband. Ever.


End file.
